


If It Helps You Breathe

by LynnLarsh



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety Attacks, Gen, Lance Finally Asks For Help, Mental Illness, Moderately Graphic Descriptions of Self Harm, References to Depression, Self-Destruction, Self-Doubt, Self-Harm, Self-Loathing, at least I like to think so, bittersweet but happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-08 08:34:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12250788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LynnLarsh/pseuds/LynnLarsh
Summary: A bad night with alien liquor puts Lance in a headspace he's spent years trying to get out of.  It's a downward spiral that he eventually realizes he needs help dealing with.Trigger warning for self harm.  The tags are important on this one.  Please tread carefully.





	If It Helps You Breathe

**Author's Note:**

> I almost didn't post this, but a friend of mind convinced me.
> 
> So, to all of you who have at one point felt this way, or even currently do: You're not alone.

_“Cry heart,  
Cry yourself to sleep,  
Cry a storm of tears if it helps you breath.  
If it helps you,  
If it helps you breathe.”_  
- _Homesick_ by Sleeping at Last

 

It all started with a diplomatic Gala on a planet that, for the first time in their stint as Voltron Paladins, had something even mildly close to Earth alcohol. It was technically poisonous to humans, an herb used in drinks that could elevate psyche in the local Thalminians, but when mixed with native juices, could offer hallucinogenic properties. Some almost identical to being drunk.

Which Lance was. Very, very much so.

No one had known, not initially. It had been meant as a bonding ritual, much like a peace pipe. But after downing two shots of the stuff, it was obvious to everyone that the effects were far, far more potent than expected.

“No, no, no, no, guys come _on_ ,” Lance slurred, wrapping an arm around Hunk’s shoulder and half-heartedly kicking out in Keith’s general direction. “This is the best, the _best_. Why do you wanna do that thing, you know? The going to bed thing. Or the avoiding fun thing. Why am I the only one who likes fun?”

“We have a training in the morning, Lance,” Shiro huffed, not for the first time, and thankfully, he was also a little drunk, because the sound was mostly fond. Still exasperated, but definitely not annoyed, which, for some reason, Lance thought he might not be able to handle right now.

“We have trainings every morning,” Lance pouted, slumping heavily against Hunk’s side. “Can’t we get, like, one day? I don’t know, of like, chill, non-defend the universe…ness? I mean, I’m just sayin’. We’re due.”

“I think it’s time I took you to bed, buddy,” Hunk chuckled, though even in his semi-inebriated state, Lance could hear the increasing frustration. It wrung him out, made him feel hallow and suddenly very, very far from social. He leaned into Hunk’s side a bit further, clutching onto his shirt a bit as Hunk led him away from the entrance hall and back towards the Castle.

“Sorry,” he said at one point, because his filter had been devoured by the alien poison liquor. Hunk just tightened his grip on Lance’s midsection and continued to lead him back to his room, not saying anything for a long time. Which, in many ways, felt much, much worse.

“You’re alright, bud,” Hunk said once they were inside Lance’s room, Lance’s body somehow finding a hunched, barely comfortably home in the center of his bed. For a stretch, Lance just stared at where his awkward line of sight put him, eyes unfocused while his brain spiraled, but eventually, Hunk cleared his throat. “You’ll come get me if you need me, yeah?” He asked, voice quiet, too quiet. And Lance did what he did best. He deflected.

With a blasé thumbs up, Lance grinned at Hunk from the suffocating smother of his pillow, blinking dazedly despite how his heart pounded against his chest. “Thanks, bro,” he mumbled, putting extra weight into the way his words felt the need to trail off naturally at the end due to the alcohol. Alien poison juice. Yeah that. Or whatever.

“Anytime, man,” Hunk said, hesitating. His focus was torn, like he was caught between letting Lance bear the brunt of his drunkenness alone and properly making sure he was alright. So Lance latched on to the hesitation and rolled over onto his side.

“Mmm, g’night,” Lance mumbled in faux-drowsiness, going quiet and still. It took a second, but eventually he heard Hunk’s footsteps inching towards the door.

“Goodnight, buddy.”

The sound of Lance’s door sliding open and then closed was like a guillotine slicing through the tendons of someone’s neck. Precise, instant. Lance could practically feel his own head separating in a severed bounce, landing in a basket and blinking in distaste at the situation.

But here he was.

It had been years, he realized with a start. Distraction was good at that. First internships, then training as a cargo pilot at the Garrison, then fighter pilot, then piloting Blue, then piloting Red. It had all happened so fast, there was no room for dwelling, no room for fantasizing or analyzing. There was no room for doubt. Hesitance breeds mistakes, accidents. He had to be strong for his team, who so often fell victim to the darkened weight of war. He had to be strong for Keith, a new leader with a surprising lack of confidence and habitual recklessness that needed to be kept in check.

He had to be strong for the people who thought he already was.

But he wasn’t strong. He had never been strong, or had never felt it anyway. He’d always been a good actor. Good with people, good with family, good in any situation provided him. He was an extrovert, a charmer, a flirt. If it involved people, his team, he was a problem solver. It’s what he was good at, what was expected of him.

But then why did it hurt?

Why did it feel like every mistake he made left him one step closer to getting caught? Caught being useless, caught being worthless, caught being a mistake. Why did it feel like, if he said the wrong thing, or even the right thing at the wrong time, he’d be shut out, tossed out on a moment’s notice? Why did it feel like, even when he knew he was doing his best, knew he was kicking ass, he couldn’t help but feel like he was pretending, like he was just putting on a show to make people like him, accept him. Love him. Why did it feel like he was merely playing at genuine human connection when he craved the real thing so, so much?

Maybe he was broken.

Oh no. _Oh no, no, no._

Lance buried his face in his pillow, smothered his quiet groans of discontent as if he could smother the sudden, erratic beat of his heat. He didn’t need this, should be over this. He was twenty-three for gods’ sake. And yet.

Alcohol was a dangerous thing, Lance had come to realize over his first few years in the Garrison. One too many, and he was loud, obnoxious, but generally a happy drunk. Two or three too many and he was a contemplative drunk. Four too many? He tried to never get that deep, tried to prevent himself from sequestering down the rabbit hole where he knew from experience it would only end in pain.

Physical pain. Emotional pain. A pain that seemed right and understandable and perfect in the moment, but would only end in self-deprecation, mortification, self-loathing.

And yet. 

Old habits must die hard, because Lance found himself running a thumb over the inside of his wrist like a promise. Not high enough to imply he wanted to kill himself, of course. He loved life, loved living and experiencing and dreaming way too big, even if it only ever made him feel small. Not only that, but he was terrified of death, terrified of this great unknown that comes after, a final destination that no one could possibly prepare for or understand.

So no, this wasn’t about death. This was about something far more simple. This was about life. This was about feeling.

This was about distraction.

This was about remembering a time when it was easy to be distracted. This was about remembering a time when it was easy to absorb new information, easy to feel and adapt and roll with the punches. This was about remembering a time when there was no acting, just feeling. Just living, because that’s all he was supposed to do.

But “just living” wasn’t an option anymore, and it became startlingly clear the longer Lance stared at his ceiling.

No. It had become clearer and clearer even before then, from the moment Blue had found him to the moment Red had demanded him; his life wasn’t his own. He was simply piloting the controls.

Lance swallowed back the lump in his throat and tried his best to breathe. He shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t, but his mind was cloudy with alien liquor and his inhibitions were on a vacation and… And underneath the silver wrist-cuff the Thalminians had given him to wear, he could still see the faint scarring from his last bad night.

He didn’t like those scars. He wanted them to go away.

On paper, there should have been no reason for this, this feeling or craving or whatever it was that crawled like spiders beneath his skin. They were all overwhelmed, they were all stressed out, they were all fighting their hardest in a way none of them had signed up for. Hell, if anyone should have been thinking these thoughts, it should have been Shiro, not Lance.

But these thoughts, these creeping, poisonous feelings, had been around far, far before the Galra, hadn’t they?

He had a family who loved him with siblings who looked out for him, a home to fight for and protect and hopefully one day return to. Yet he still remembered the night he’d taken a mag-light to his forearm, trying hard as he might to leave bruises. He’d blamed them on a rough football match with his cousin the next day, an easy that rolled effortlessly off the tongue.

He’d had a place at the Garrison, a ladder to climb, records and scores that his family had been proud of. And even if it had taken Keith washing out for him to finally reach Fighter Pilot status, he’d been proud of himself too. Yet even before the multiple, failed simulator scores, even before the lectures and the scoldings and the “trips to the principal’s office,” Lance still remembered serrated steel against his inner thigh where he could feel it for days but couldn’t be seen beneath his uniform pants. 

Even now, when he boasted his prowess as their cool, ninja Sharpshooter, even now, when he backed up that ludicrous claim with success after success after success—

Even now, Lance found himself dragging sluggishly up to rest against the headboard of his bed, hands heavy in his lap and nails dragging light against that spot on the inside of his wrist.

Then not so light.

Then, with undeniable, unforgivable intent.

Over and over, quick scratches in the same spot until little splotches of red began to bubble up. Then he’d move on, a spot to its left, a spot to its right, lines about an inch long and a width identical to his own fingernails. Fingernails muddled with flecks of red beneath when he finally pulled away.

There were no tears, no self loathing (yet), just the same resigned acceptance as every time before. In fact, alcohol still letting his mind float lazily about from feeling to feeling, he might have even admitted to liking the sensation. Might have even admitted to admiring the sight.

Three stripes of red, wrist stinging almost pleasantly, mind blissfully, blissfully quiet. He tried not to think of how similar it felt to piloting Red, how similar it felt to gunning down a Galra sentry.

He tried not to think of how similar it felt to a job well done.

Lance didn’t want to die, didn’t want to be hurt. He just wanted to be strong, wanted to prove he could take it, maybe. He wanted the blood, wanted the jagged cuts and dark bruises, the thick slashes that would heal.

But most of all, Lance wanted to sleep. So he did.

 

.x.X.x.

 

As he was want to do after a night of drinking, Lance woke up early. Too early. But it wasn’t a hangover, still young and stretching lazily into existence within, that woke him. No. It was a sharp sting, a persistent ache along the inside of his left wrist.

He hated himself instantly. A not unfamiliar feeling.

There was no drunken forgetfulness here, no excuses he could begin to lean on. Lance knew what he would find the moment he opened his eyes and dragged his raw and poorly healing wrist from below his pillow. He knew it as if he’d done it in complete sobriety.

It wasn’t as unfamiliar a sight as he wished it would be. He’d just never seen such a striking and noticeable display before, especially on his wrist. He’d always taken solace in his ability to adapt and hide after these moments of weakness. But this? This was unavoidable, and in a place that would be impossible to bandage and just ignore or deny.

“Fuck,” Lance whispered into the alien quiet of the Castle’s scheduled “Earthen Nocturnal Cycle.” He ran a hand over his face, the hand attached to his unmarred wrist, and willed himself not to panic.

He could figure this out. Wearing long sleeves because he was chilly in the fluctuating temperature of the Castle. A wrist brace because he’d been a clumsy dumbass and hurt it at the Gala when nobody had seen.

Maybe when it started to heal, started to fade into new scars (one of many, too many), he could pretend he’d gotten them elsewhere. Hunk had been busy, Lance had been adventurous, and damn. Look at that. A baking mishap turned embarrassed accident. Believable and not nearly beyond the norm of his antics. Just not for a few days yet, the scratches still too fresh to come off as burns. 

Today would be the most difficult.

Even if he managed to go months, maybe even years without hurting himself, it was what he assumed being addicted to cigarettes was like. Just one night, just one weak and fragile state of mind, and the streak was ruined. Lungs filled with tar, skin mottled with signs of his own insecurity, his weakness.

And he _was_ weak, he _knew_ he was. But it hurt every time to see it in blatant, physical representation. It hurt every god damn time.

He didn’t know how long he’d sat there staring at his ugly, wounded mistake, but eventually the morning alarm blared, forcibly wrenching him from his downward spiral. At home, he could dwell and drown in self-pity. But this was war and the Galra and Voltron. He didn’t have time for that now.

So, with one last, deep and shaken breath, Lance steeled himself and headed to the bathroom, first aid kit tucked where he’d, as of yet, had no reason to utilize it. Top cupboard to the right of the mirror.

With meticulous, practiced motions, he sterilized the wound, wrapped his wrist in gauze, and then thanked some unseen force that his paladin armor was full body.

 

.x.X.x

 

Training for that day was a blessedly simple, familiar affaire. Team building exercises in the maze, Voltron-Building exercises in their lions, and lastly, some one on one sparring. Thankfully, it was a weapons based, full combat spar for the first half, which meant they wouldn’t need to take off their uniforms. The second half, however, was set as hand-to-hand. Which meant Lance found himself getting perpetually distracted throughout part one trying to figure out ways to either get out of part two or convince Allura that he really needed to spar in a long sleeved shirt.

And much like hesitance, distraction also had a tendency to breed mistakes.

All it took was one particularly well-timed shot from Pidge’s bayard to set the avalanche in motion.

What with both of them having decent, long ranged weapons, she was using her bayard’s grappling hook function rather than it’s close-range taser. While Lance had been attempting to avoid each whip-like motion, head simultaneously and sufficiently elsewhere, she managed to work a lasso-like loop around his left wrist. A sudden tightness, a ruthless yank backwards, and not only was Lance’s own bayard suddenly skidding across the floor, but Lance’s eyes were exploding in a burst of painful white. 

He hoped he didn’t, but he may have shouted.

The scratches on his wrist were still too new, still weeping and sticking to the gauze in a way he could feel like the pulling off of a fresh layer of skin. He couldn’t help the way he buckled at the unexpected shock, the alien wire dragging against the spot in just the right way to make him curl in on himself for a moment, hissing at the contact. Somehow, it had managed to lasso just below his armor, wrapping in an unrelenting grip around the thin fabric of the suit’s under layer.

He hoped he hadn’t, but he may have caught everyone’s attention.

“Lance!” Pidge shouted as she called her bayard back and rushed over. She didn’t seem panicked, but she did seem concerned. He could talk his way out of this, definitely.

At least, he hoped he could, but the way Hunk was watching him, expression worried and suspicious, left quite a bit to be desired on the deflection front.

“It’s all good, Pidge,” Lance got shakily to his feet, offering her a lack-luster pair of rather wilted finger guns. He tried to make his grin more believable. “You’ve got a strong grip. Thought my wrist was actually gonna detach for a moment there.”

“I wasn’t really pulling that hard,” Pidge frowned. “Just trying to knock your bayard out of your hands.”

Lance swallowed thickly and tried his best to laugh, patting her on the shoulder with his right hand as he walked past. “Well, mission accomplished, Cowgirl.”

When he was only a couple of feet away, Lance called his bayard back, letting it settle magically back into the plating on his upper high. He wanted to ask for a quick bathroom break, a few minutes alone, just a small opportunity to check on his wrist, rewrap it with thicker gauze maybe. But he knew he already looked suspicious, could see it in the way everyone had stopped their current sparring to discuss something among themselves, regroup for the hand to hand.

He could see it in the way Hunk patted Allura’s shoulder with a smile and trotted away. In Lance’s direction. If it was at all possible, Lance was sure his stomach dropped while his heart simultaneously jumped into his throat. Two vital organs vying desperately for escape in opposite directions.

Because Hunk knew. Well, didn’t _know_ exactly, but he still _knew_. He’d seen Lance’s infrequent but violent panic attacks at the Garrison. He’d listened to Lance’s attempts at nonchalance and refused to succumb to it at every pass. He’d even offered an awkward shoulder to cry on on more than one occasion, and once, only once, even tried to get Lance set up with therapy. But the Garrison was his dream, and this nonsense would pass. If he wanted to be a fighter pilot, he didn’t need something like mental illness marking his record, right?

But Lance was twenty-three now, or close to it since Earth time was skewed here, and he was still making the same, goddam mistakes.

“You alright, bud?” Hunk asked the moment he was within earshot. “Looked like you were in pain.”

“Naw dude,” Lance smiled, keeping his expression as low key as possible. Not too big, not too small. “Just caught off guard, mostly.”

“But Lance, you-” Hunk tried to say, reaching forward, hand outstretched towards Lance’s left wrist. On reflex, Lance pulled away, both hands behind his back.

“I’m fine.”

It was too loud, too defensive, but what was done was done, and Lance wasn’t going to make a scene. He wasn’t. So he followed up by leaning in conspiratorially, grabbing at Hunk’s armor by the collar for good measure, dragging him down.

“Dude, I’m just hungover, okay? Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

In the end, Hunk didn’t. He also didn’t comment on how no one else, regardless of how much they’d drank, was hungover in the slightest. 

Lance didn’t realize until later that the “alien poison juice” had no lasting side effects, hungovers included. But again.

What was done was done.

 

.x.X.x.

 

When Lance was born, his Tío Marcus was twenty-two and in prison. Dealing drugs. Abusing drugs. By the time Lance was old enough to remember, maybe around four or five, Tío Marcus had gone through rehab, cleaned up, and started inching his way back into the family again.

When Lance thought of his Tío, he thought of family reunions and bad puns and candy bars before dinner. He thought of early Christmas presents and being called out of school on his birthday for a “family emergency” at the amusement park across town. He remembered an idol and a mentor, someone who shared his love of space. A brilliant man who Lance had never once hesitated to look up to. 

When Lance was ten, Tío Marcus lost his job.

It wasn’t his fault, just wrong place wrong time. A business gone bankrupt, a whole slew of perfectly adequate employees laid off. But Tío Marcus still took it hard. Hard enough that by that Christmas, he had paid for everyone’s presents with money he’d made dealing drugs.

By Lance’s eleventh birthday, he was back in prison.

In many ways, Lance couldn’t help but make comparisons. One bad day, one bad training, one scolding that seemed to test his value to the team, his usefulness in this war, and here he was. Once an addict, always an addict.

The wounds on his wrist had already scabbed over, enough days logged in the interim that he had begun to find excuses vague enough to deter.

“Tried baking something when Hunk was sick, and let’s just say I should probably stay way from hot oil.”

“I don’t know if you noticed the indigenous plants on Gr’lfectior, but apparently it’s like poison ivy in the summers.”

“Did you know, if you accidentally rub against the Brofarian statue at sunset, it burns away at your extremities?”

But regardless of the easy lies, regardless of the steadily increasing guilt, Lance still found fresh lines marring the skin on the inside of his wrist, the old ones barely half healed. Because he was weak. He would always be weak. And suddenly it didn’t matter who knew.

He just needed to be held accountable. Needed it like breathing. Or a wrist unmarked by scars and new wounds. He needed it like he needed Hunk to tell him it was going to be okay, even if it wouldn’t be.

But when raised his hand to knock, he couldn’t help wondering. Was he just looking for attention? Was he just clinging, reaching out to someone who he knew would judge him less? Not “at all,” because in his mind, no one could, but less. As if the percentage meant the difference between a waste of space and just a moderately damaged human.

He almost didn’t knock. In fact, he pulled his knuckles away from the metal of the door probably ten, fifteen times, but eventually, he managed to make a sound. And eventually, the door slid open to reveal his best friend, drowsy from sleep, but obviously willing to listen. Which meant Lance needed to do the right thing, needed to show him or tell him or _something_.

But all Lance seemed capable of doing was holding both hands behind his back and staring holes into the alien fabric of his blue lion slippers.

“Hey, buddy,” Hunk said, the tail end elongated by a heavy yawn. “You alright?” Lance winced, tightening the grip on his own hands at the small of his back. He could feel the scabs on his wrist beneath his fingers, felt the sting of the freshly scratched lines as they rubbed against the salt of his own skin. What was he doing?

He wanted to say yes, pretend like he was sleepwalking or had a nightmare, maybe even just feign boredom, a lack of awareness for the time. But instead, he took a deep breath and let it out on a shaky exhale that Hunk failed to miss. In fact, within seconds of the slip, Hunk seemed very, very awake.

Well, Sharpshooter? Fire when ready.

“No. I’m not,” Lance sniffed, gritting his teeth at the awkward croak of his voice. Hunk’s eyes widened, but he didn’t say anything, didn’t assume. Not that the lack of surprise wasn’t clear the moment Lance pulled his wrist from behind his back. “I’m sorry. I’m- I’m sorry, I-”

He wasn’t sure why he was apologizing, just that he suddenly felt the immense need to, his chest seizing against the overwhelming sensation of _pathetic, pitiful, fake, attention whore, sick-_

He didn’t realize he’d started tearing up until Hunk was ushering him into his room and closing the door. “Hey, hey,” he was saying, settling Lance down on his bed. “Hey, buddy. It’s okay. Deep breaths for me, alright?”

Lance did as told, but each inhale felt like fire, his mind spiraling. Why was he even here? Was he just looking for validation? No, it was accountability, right? Or was he just trying to make someone else feel sorry for him? Did he even really hurt himself because he wanted to, or because he wanted someone else to see? To see all of the overwhelming nonsense going on inside his own head. Wanted someone to notice and pity him and-

What the fuck was wrong with him? Why did he always do this? _Why_ -?

“Lance,” Hunk’s voice was soft, almost calming. Or would have been if it weren’t for the way Lance’s entire body was suddenly shaking, something he only managed to notice because of how Hunk was currently cradling him in his arms. His head was buried in Hunk’s shoulder, his hands gripping white knuckled and ruthless in the lapels of his yellow, Altean pajamas. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move beyond a quick shake of his head.

“It’s okay, buddy,” Hunk whispered as he ran his fingers through Lance’s hair. “I didn’t… I didn’t want to say anything, but-” Hunk took a deep breath, and Lance could feel his chest move against him. “I know you’ve been struggling. Wanna talk about it?”

Another firm shake of his head, though Lance could feel the tension in his shoulders draining. Hunk just continued to rake his fingers through Lance’s hair, kept up the steady ministrations along the curved length of Lance’s back.

“I’m sorry you’ve been dealing with this alone,” Hunk said after a while. “I’m glad you finally came to me though.”

Lance felt his eyes well up with fresh tears, his shoulders already shaking despite the as of yet onslaught of renewed sorrow. A burden, a pity, a disappointment; that’s what he was. Useless, frustrating, annoying, useless. Why did anyone put up with him? Why did Blue choose him? Why did Red demand him? What did he have to offer? Why did everyone continue to humor him when clearly he was just a mistake, a failsafe, a spur of the moment decision from the universe because he’d been at the right place at the right time?

Why was he stuck here in space when the only place he wanted to be was home, on Earth, in a room with glow in the dark stars on the ceiling and a sibling in the next room over who snored loud enough to hear through the walls and a cat who liked to paw beneath his door at three in the morning and a white noise machine that sounded like waves crashing and, and, and-

Well shit. He was crying full on now, wasn’t he? Like straight up sobbing. Fuck.

Luckily, Hunk didn’t seem to judge, at least not outright, his hand running across Lance’s back in a way that was more grounding than Lance was able to admit just then. There was definitely going to be a wet spot on Hunk’s shoulder when Lance finally pulled away, but he couldn’t move, not yet. He still felt like he was choking, his eyes burning with tears that he was unused to letting fall. Not when it came to this. He hated being a bother for someone like this, never wanted it to be an issue up here in space where he was the Blue (Red?) Paladin, Sharpshooter, the unofficial balance and ease within the team, the Right Hand Man. 

But some problems didn’t vanish just because they’d been more prevalent on Earth.

“I didn’t mean to,” Lance heard himself choke out, even though he did. He’d meant every scratch of his nails, every deep groove and stinging line. “I don’t know why I… Why I…”

And that was the truth. 

He’d never known. Not even during his first time, pulling bruises from beneath his skin with a mag light; he’d never really known. He’d just done it, silently, absently wondering. Waiting for something or someone to explain to him why he was so broken, broken, broken, broken-

“Does it hurt?”

Lance looked up, stunned by the question. Of course it hurt; it was supposed to. But the question didn’t seem to make sense to him. He knew what Hunk was asking, logically, but that wasn’t what this was about. Pain wasn’t the only thing he was going for, though he couldn’t put into words exactly what else it was. And yet.

Lance felt his heart clench, his chest tighten.

_Does it hurt?_

“Not enough,” Lance whispered, hugging his wrist to his chest. Because it didn’t. The swirling monsoon of emotions beating up his insides were barely a tenth of what he’d managed to scratch out against his skin. If he weren’t so afraid of dying, he’d probably have taken a knife to his wrist instead of a blunt fingernail.

And that scared him more than anything.

“You don’t have to tell the rest of the team,” Hunk said after a while, once Lance’s tears had dried and his heart had slowed. Once Lance was curled up in Hunk’s bed, cocooned in soft sheets and Hunk’s strong and understanding embrace. “But they’d want to know what you’re going through. So they can help you too.” He knew Hunk was right, but it still sat heavy and sour at the pit of his stomach. He was pretty sure he was going to throw up.

“What if they hate me?” Lance whispered against Hunk’s pillow, clutching it tight to his chest. “What if they don’t want me to pilot Red or Blue anymore?” _I’m broken, Hunk,_ Lance didn’t say. _They’ll see that I’m broken and realize they don’t need me. They’ll realize they don’t_ want _me. They can do better. They should have done better to begin with._

“Lance,” Hunk said, voice calm and comforting, but firm. “You’re a paladin for a reason. Never doubt that, buddy, okay? Whatever you’re going through, never doubt that.” Then, after a brief pause, his hand coming to settle in Lance’s hair, nails raking a bit against his scalp, he added, “We love you, Lance. All of us. Please… Never doubt that either, alright?”

Even if he didn’t quite believe it, not yet, maybe never, Lance nodded.

 

.x.X.x.

 

It was both disheartening and oddly relieving to find out that self-harm was a universal concept.

Allura and Coran hand been instantly accepting, empathetic in a way that made Lance wonder what they’d been through, what they’d seen. There was an understanding to their comfort that left Lance almost reeling.

He also shouldn’t have been surprised that Shiro had known, familiar as the former Champion was with wounds, self inflicted or otherwise. 

“I’d hoped you would come to me when you were ready,” Shiro said, eyes sad but smile warm. Lance’s own eyes stung, but he did his best to smile back. Knowing that Shiro had been watching, making sure he never took his suffering too far, left an odd mess of confusing emotions struggling for dominance. He wanted to be grateful, relieved that his leader cared, but he also couldn’t help feeling sick to his stomach. Shiro had been watching, had listened to every lie. Shiro had _known_.

In fact, despite his surprise, despite they way that surprise left a suffocating burn at the back of his throat, Pidge had known as well, as perceptive as she was. Even Keith had sensed something off in the Blue Paladin, though he hadn’t known how to address it. Everybody, in their own ways, had known. Regardless of Lance’s attempt at hiding it, laughing it off, he was still an open book, heart on his sleeve, and they’d seen right through him.

But that was the point of this, right? Telling everyone, letting them know. He’d never told his mother, always laughed away his older sister’s concerns. It was _time_ for somebody to know. And if he couldn’t tell his family back on Earth, he would tell this one.

In the end, Lance barely made it through. But once the words were out, once the tears had dried some and the hugs had started, it got easier. Not easy, but easier.

He wasn’t better, probably wouldn’t be for a long, long while, but he was loved. Even if it felt hard to believe sometimes, he had a family here who wanted to help, wanted to ease his suffering if they could. He was fighting a war, he realized, not just with the Galra but with himself, and he had allies willing to fight alongside him. 

He was the Blue Paladin, the Sharpshooter, the Goofball. He was just a boy from Cuba, just a twenty-three year old in way over his head, just Lance. But he was loved. Accepted, regardless of his faults, his weaknesses. 

_You are loved_ , he would remind himself every day if he had to. _Yes. You are loved._

And for now, for what it was worth, that was enough.

That was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was a cathartic release in a very bad time for me. In a way, Lance helped me through it. Focusing everything I felt and had been feeling into his voice allowed me to better understand my own headspace, even if it hurt to have it all written out in black and white.
> 
> So I hope that, in reading it, maybe some of you might have gained a little more of the validation that you deserve. Self harm is never a good thing, but the emotions that lead you down that rabbit hole are valid. And asking for help isn't weakness. It's bravery.
> 
> For all of you out there that this resonated with, I love you. And once again, just in case it may be hard to believe sometimes, know that you are not alone. 
> 
> Thank you for reading. Be safe.


End file.
